Blankest Year
by caramelo
Summary: Sam was going to turn twenty-three tomorrow. Most people would see this as a cause for celebration. But his birthday pretty much paled in comparison to a ghost that had killed two dozen girls in the span of half a century. Oneshot.


**Milestone Year**

_By: caramelo_

_I do not own _Supernatural_ or anything related to it._

Tomorrow was Sam's birthday.

He'd be turning twenty-three. No that it mattered or anything.

His mom was dead, his dad was…missing, and he and Dean were wrapped up in a hunt for an ornery old spirit that possessed the uncanny ability to imitate a baby's wail. This ability, of course, was used to lure unsuspecting females outside with the intention of slaughtering them.

Because spirits couldn't ever just play non-bloody practical jokes.

It was the kind of story he remembered the neighborhood children telling each other under the glow of campfires and flashlights. But then again, all legends usually stemmed from some truth.

So, all things considered, Sam's birthday really was very inconsequential. Twenty-three wasn't even a milestone year or anything. Just another one to tuck under his belt in the long, downward spiral to thirty.

Would he even live to thirty?

_Forget thirty_, he thought with a frown. Maybe he should just shoot for twenty-four.

The door to the motel room burst open, and for a wild second Sam wondered if he was being too presumptuous in assuming that he'd even make it past that day. But it was Dean who strode in, not some knife-wielding, baby-parroting ghost like he had feared.

"I got a lead, Sammy," his brother said without so much as a hello.

"It's Sam," he replied, testy. "Sammy is a thirteen year old punk. I'm just about a decade beyond that."

If Dean recognized the implications of the sentence, that Sam was just _a day away _from being a decade older than thirteen, he didn't show it.

"Whatever," he grunted. "Check this out."

He threw an ancient, yellowing paper down in front of him. "Fifty years ago, this girl broke up with her boyfriend Jacob McCallister after they had been going out for about a year. She called him possessive and violent and a little bit crazy, which was all actually kind of true. She didn't think he'd be a good father for the kid she had from a previous relationship. So she dumped him right on her front porch and ran inside before he could say or do anything. And he went a little bit mental…

"Sam, are you listening?"

"What?" Sam said, starting. "Oh, yeah. Go on."

Dean glared at him pointedly, a silent threat to pay attention. "…And he called her and rang her doorbell day and night. Even tried to break through her window once. No answer. She totally ignored him. So on the third day, he took a different approach and hid out in the bushes for a while. Sure enough, her kid burst outside after being cooped up for so long. Psycho Jacob snatched him before the poor kid even realized what was happening. That night, he used him as bait."

"That's sick," Sam muttered.

"It gets worse," Dean said. "The kid was so used to seeing him that he wasn't really scared, so this guy had to carve him up a little to get him to scream. The girlfriend ran to the door, of course, but at that point the guy had gotten all this blood on his hands, and it really threw him over the deep end. She was screaming, and the kid was screaming, and he couldn't take it anymore. She tried to lunge for her son, but he plunged the knife in her chest without even really thinking. And the kid was still screaming…"

"It was really bad, Sam. You should've seen the pictures. I've never seen that much blood."

"Kinda glad I didn't," Sam admitted. "So where does all the haunting stuff come in?"

"Well, after the kid died, the guy was totally gone. He saw all the blood and everything around him and took the knife and used it on himself. Died with the kid in his arms."

"That's so unbelievably wrong," Sam said with a grimace.

"Yep, and he knew it too," Dean said. "So he resisted the pull of the afterlife because he knew where he was going. And I guess through all the blood mixing or whatever, his spirit got some of the kid's traits. Specifically, his wail. And so every five years, the spirit goes to the doorsteps of girls who have just recently dumped their boyfriends and imitates that little kid, so he can lure them out. One for every night he stood outside on his own girlfriend's house."

"So this is one of those designated years," Sam summed up.

"Right," Dean said. "Tomorrow will be the last night."

Sam sighed. He was going to be twenty-three tomorrow. Most people would see this as a cause for celebration. But his birthday pretty much paled in comparison to a ghost that had killed two dozen girls in the span of about half a century.

"So how do we stop him?" Sam asked.

"Burn the bones, I'm guessing," Dean said. "According to this article, he was buried somewhere near the house where he died."

"Great," Sam moaned. "That gives us a ton to go on."

His brother nodded, looking miserable himself, and pushed himself up off the bed. Sam raked a frustrated hand through his hair.

The light clicked off. Sam blinked.

"It's time to get some sleep," Dean said gruffly. "We got a lot work to do tomorrow. It's gonna be a bitch trying to find that house _and_ rounding up every girl in this goddamned town who's dumped her loser boyfriend recently."

"Yeah," Sam said, crawling under his covers. "Tomorrow's going to suck."

Dean was asleep in the next ten minutes or so, but Sam stayed awake in his bed for another couple hours to watch the numbers on the clock roll over into midnight. He didn't know why. It wasn't like he was excited or anything. There was nothing special about turning twenty-three. It wasn't like sixteen where he got to get his license (actually, he hadn't been able to get it for about a year afterward with all their state-hopping, and even then Dean never let him, an inexperienced driver, touch his baby), or eighteen where he got to vote (he had done so once in Stanford being into law and all but now doubted he would ever care enough to do it again), or twenty-one where he got to drink (okay, so _that _had been pretty freaking awesome). Twenty-three just wasn't any kind of landmark, no associations with the age, no special privileges, no nothing.

But it was his birthday. Wasn't that reason enough to make it important?

Sam drifted off to sleep with a frown on his face, not bothering to wish himself a happy birthday.

"You look like hell, dude," Dean said the next morning as Sam slumped over a coffee mug in the local diner.

"Thanks," Sam muttered. "You sure know how to flatter a guy."

"It's the Winchester charm. You'll grow into it someday."

What day? The day he turned twenty-three? Was that this year's special privilege?

A cute, blonde waitress passed by the table, eyeing the brothers appreciatively. Sam weakly tried to imitate Dean's casanova smile that never failed to send all the girls swooning. She rolled her eyes and proceeded to slip her number to his brother.

Oh, heartbreak.

Apparently, the Winchester charm was not a special privilege of twenty-three.

Dean, of course, had to notice.

"Tough break, kiddo," he sniggered. "I'll throw it away if you want me to."

"Don't bother," Sam scowled. "I know you'll just go dig it out later when you think I'm not looking."

A brow shot up on Dean's face. "You have one of those freaky premonitions about this?"

"No," Sam said dryly. "Just past experience."

Dean didn't even have the compassion to hide his guilty amusement. Bastard.

The scowl on Sam's face darkened even more, if that was possible.

Dean only laughed and clapped a hand on his back, hard. It was sure to leave a bruise by the next day. Turning twenty-three also didn't bring Dean's superman-style strength.

What a freaking useless year.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean said, still laughing. "Let's go round up those girls. Maybe one of them will even take you as a rebound."

By seven o'clock, they had visited approximately thirty-something girls' houses and tried to explain the danger of the situation they may be in. Some had laughed and shut the door in their face, others had backed away warily and shut the door in their face, and the rest had nodded solemnly, wide-eyed, and promised not to open their door that night, no matter what. Not one had given Sam her number.

Not that he wanted them to, of course. These girls were mostly teenagers, for godsakes! And as for Sam, he was twenty-three. Much too old to have any kind of interest in them. He was twenty-three and most certainly not a pedophile.

But it didn't stop him from noticing just how many of those girls had batted their excessively mascara-ed eyelashes at Dean.

Maybe twenty-three wasn't quite old enough to be considered a dangerous, criminal liaison.

On the last house, it became apparent that they had wasted their time with all the other girls. They had heard this girl had suffered through a particularly nasty break-up, but then again, weren't all break-ups like that? Hers, however, put all the rest of the sob stories to shame. Under the guise of police officers Harding and Sutter called out to investigate domestic disturbance, they had gotten her to tell the story of how her boyfriend was emailing her inappropriate pictures and panting over the phone line, and she had no idea what to do. They had been dating for two years when she had decided that his jealous tendencies were going overboard.

And, Jesus Christ, was that blood smeared over in the corner of her porch?

"I bought this house in an auction," the girl, Lucy, explained after Dean questioned her about it. (Twenty-three had not sharpened Sam's eyes either.) "Apparently, some pretty crazy stuff went down here with its first owners. But it was cheap, and I didn't have very much money, so I figured what the hell? As long as it wasn't all saggy and in danger of collapsing or anything."

"No," Dean said grimly. "There's a different kind of danger associated with this house."

"What?" the girl asked.

As if on cue, a baby started to wail.

"You need to get inside right now, ma'am," Dean said, directing her to the door.

"B-but, why?" the girl stammered.

"Your life is in danger."

"_What?_"

Sam looked down at her, pleading. "Just trust us, okay?"

The girl stopped struggling reluctantly and nodded.

At least twenty-three wasn't old enough to dull the effects of his puppy-dog face.

The girl had just disappeared behind her door when the spirit appeared. It knocked them around quite a bit and even managed to get a few slashes in despite the constant barrage of rock salt the brothers were firing at it. It wasn't until the thing had thrown Sam at the ground with force enough to break through the rickety wood of the porch that they got the upper-hand.

Because, unfortunately for the spirit, this spot, just underneath the porch, was his burial site. And not a very deep burial, at that. Years of weathering had exposed enough of the body, and the child not far away, to where a shovel would not be necessary. "Dean!" Sam yelled as he scrambled out of the hole, "His bones. Over here!"

Dean glanced up wildly, and Sam launched himself at the spirit as a distraction.

"Goddamn it, Dean!" Sam grated out after the spirit had sliced his shoulder despite all his attempts to avoid that knife. "Torch the thing already!"

"I did," Dean's voice called back. He sounded kind of sick. "I think I have to burn the kid's bones too."

If he could have afforded it, Sam would have shut his eyes in revulsion and regret. Blood flowed freely from a second place in his arm as the spirit managed to get another swipe in. That was all it took for Dean.

"Sam!"

The second set of bones was set aflame.

Later that night, Sam and Dean were back in their motel room, recuperating. Specifically, Sam was lying tensely on his bed while Dean hovered over him, using a needle to prick out the particularly nasty splinters that had lodged themselves into his back after he had been thrown through the porch.

It was getting to the point where Sam was almost certain that Dean was just stabbing at him for the fun of it.

Just before he could voice his suspicions, Dean sat up straight. "Finally!" he said. "That porch really did a number on you."

Sam grimaced as he lifted himself up. "How many were there?"

"Twenty-three."

Oh, the irony.

"Perfect," he growled. "I'm going to bed now."

He flopped back against his pillows and then quickly made the mental point of never, ever doing that again when his back was shredded to pieces from both rotting wood and older brothers with brutal needles. Painstakingly, he twisted himself over onto his stomach.

"That hurt like a bitch, didn't it?" Dean said, amused.

"Shut up," Sam said darkly. "You should've warned me."

"How was I supposed to know you were going to fucking launch yourself at your pillow? Jeez, Sammy, you're supposed to be smarter than that."

"Just leave me alone," Sam said, his face muffled by the pillow. "I'm tired."

"It's only nine o'clock," Dean noted.

Sam smirked mirthlessly. "I'm getting weary in my old age."

Dean reached over to tousle his hair, amused. "Whatever, kiddo. I gotta take a dump."

"Nice."

Dean cackled and lifted himself off the bed, strolling leisurely towards the bathroom. Sam rolled his eyes. Of course, Dean would choose tonight to render the place nothing short of toxic. Being twenty-three sucked. What made it worse was he knew he wouldn't be nearly as affected by all these things if it had just been another day of being twenty-two. But the knowledge of his birthday had magnified everything, made even the slightest offenses seem like a personal insult of the highest degree just because he knew the day was supposed to be special for him.

Maybe he should forget about his birthday, just like everybody else had.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean's voice cut through his gloomy thoughts.

"It's Sam," he grated. "And no, I'm not going to the front desk to get toilet paper for you."

"Don't be so grouchy when I'm trying to surprise you."

"What?" Sam twisted around in his bed to a sitting position, careful this time not to jostle his back too much. Through the darkness, he could just barely make out something brown and lumpy in Dean's hands. He could feel his stomach revolting.

"Jesus Christ, Dean, if that's what I think it is…"

"What?" Dean said, confused. Then his eyes lit in understanding. He scowled. "Sam, I didn't really go to the bathroom to take a dump. And I'm definitely not that nasty." He flicked on the lights.

"Happy birthday, dumbass."

Sam stared blankly. In Dean's hands was a small, store-bought chocolate cake with even more chocolate frosting, Sam's favorite. A cheery "23" confetti-decorated candle adorned the top.

"Well?" Dean said impatiently. "Aren't you going to say thank you or something? This was tomorrow's pizza money I'll have you know."

Sam came back to his senses. "You didn't have to do this."

Dean rolled his eyes. "It's not like its some big sacrifice or anything. Just say thank you and be done with it, you ungrateful little bitch."

Sam laughed. "Okay. Thanks, Dean."

"I knew I raised you with some manners," Dean grunted as he placed the cake on the bed between them. He flicked out a lighter from his pocket, the same lighter, Sam noted, that they had used to torch the bones earlier that day. "So I'm not some kinda canary, and I'm definitely not going to sing. You're just going to have to pretend like the whole birthday song thing happened, and make your wish."

"You really know how to make a guy feel special on his birthday," Sam commented as he leant down to blow out the candle.

"Yeah, well," Dean shrugged.

Sam laughed again, but it was tinged with bitterness. "Don't worry, you don't have to go through all this stuff again next year. It's not really a big deal."

"What?" Dean asked blankly.

"My birthday," Sam explained. "You don't have to worry about it next year. No big deal."

"What are you talking about?" Dean demanded. "Of course your birthday's a big deal. It always has been. You can't just tell me to forget about it."

"But…"

"No buts, Sammy. Where did you get the dumb idea that your birthday wasn't important?"

Sam shrugged. "I just figured…"

"Is it because I didn't say anything earlier?" Dean inquired. He made a face. "Damn it, Sammy, you always made this big deal when you were a kid about how you wanted a surprise party, and when I finally do manage to surprise you, you _still _bitch about it? What do you want, man?"

"You were surprising me?" Sam asked dumbly.

Dean flushed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay, so it's not like a huge party or anything, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances, you know?" He paused and grinned smugly. "I'm usually the life of the party anyway, so it's not like you're missing out on much."

Sam shook his head.

"Now, at least pretend to like your birthday, so I can give you your present."

"You got me a present?" Sam perked up curiously.

Dean chuckled. "I thought that'd get a rise outta you. Close your eyes."

"Are you serious?"

"Of course I am. Now, close your damn eyes and put out your hands."

Sam felt something cold and metallic fall into his hands.

"Open 'em."

Sam complied and looked down. And nearly fell into a coma.

"_You're giving me the Impala?_"

"What?" Dean cried. "No!" He snatched back the keys hurriedly. "You get to drive it around for the next week or so, you crazy bastard. Listen to all your emo-whiny shit."

"Oh," Sam said, considerably deflated. "That's pretty cool. Thanks."

Dean laughed and reached under the bed, tossing up a crudely wrapped box. "I got you this too. Nothing special just…"

Sam carefully peeled back the wrapping in that manner of his that always made Dean want to grab the present out of his hands and tear it open himself. Just for today, he tried to show some restraint.

"Don't tell me you're gonna save that ratty, old paper, Sam."

"No," Sam said, looking up. "Why?"

"Just tear the damn thing then! You're driving me crazy."

Sam made a face unbefitting of a twenty-three year old and proceeded to carefully slide his finger underneath the tape to unpeel it from the wrapper, taking even more time than he had before.

Dean growled.

After what surely must have been ten minutes, Sam finally slid the box out from the paper and cracked open the lid. An eyebrow shot up on his face.

"A Magic Eight-Ball?" he said flatly.

Dean grinned. "It's like your own crystal ball or something. All the rage with the psychics these days."

"Jerk."

"Oh, come on. Like you weren't dying for your own."

"I honestly can say I wasn't."

"Liar. You can't wait till I go to bed, so you can start doing all your freaky, shining stuff with it."

Sam laughed outright while his brother smirked back, and for the first time, he found himself looking forward to the year ahead. The day may not have gone perfectly, and he may not have gotten a normal, frat-boy style party thrown for him. But, in that second, laughing with his brother, stuffing himself with enough chocolate cake that would have sent any normal person into a sugar-induced coma, he couldn't really imagine a better way to spend his birthday.

And, later that night, after Dean had gone to bed, he might have spent some time messing around with that stupid Magic Eight-Ball. Just a few questions, really.

Twenty-three was a big deal, after all. He had to make sure he was prepared.

**Author's Note: **This is my first fic in the Supernatural fandom, so _please _review, and let me know what you think! I've recently fallen completely in love with the show, and I decided to branch out a little from the One Tree Hill fandom and try something new. Did it work out? I'll never know unless you review! ;)


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